


The Dirtiest Thing You Know

by Nanoochka



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adrenaline, First Time, I'll take some angst with my humour, M/M, Rimming, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 16:34:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanoochka/pseuds/Nanoochka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not to be a girl about it or anything, but Stiles always expected his first time to be something tender and slow. Special, and with someone he cared about. That isn’t how it happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dirtiest Thing You Know

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to qthelights for beta-ing and for holding my hand during the (very lengthy) process of writing this fic! Set ambiguously during S2. Loose spoilers and even looser resemblance to canon when you factor in 2.12.

 

 

“God, I could eat a horse. Isn't it crazy how slaying just always makes you hungry and horny?”

                                       - Faith, _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ , “Faith, Hope, and Trick” (Ep. 3.03)

 

 

     The list of things wrong with Stiles’s old Jeep was a long one; judging by the sound the suspension made when he drove over a pothole, or the fact that running the air actually made his truck slow down, it was getting longer by the minute. Sure, she was one bad day away from being a junker, but she was _his_ junker, and despite her faults Stiles could say with reasonable certainty his baby was still faster than a werewolf or a kanima. Faster, even, than a bunch of hunters on ATVs. Maybe that wouldn’t increase the Jeep’s Red Book value by much, but you couldn’t ask for more in a getaway vehicle than something that got you out of the shit faster than the shit could catch up with you.

     Stiles still felt like they were flying down the road at ninety miles an hour even after he’d thrown the parking brake and Derek all but shoved him out of the Jeep and up the front steps of the Stilinski residence. Anything that involved dragging Derek home with him was not what Stiles considered an ideal scenario, but mounting evidence indicated Argent’s men had sussed out the location of Derek’s rail depot, especially since Allison defected. As hiding places went, the Hale estate had long since become a foregone conclusion, and whatever their differences, Stiles couldn’t really throw Derek to the wolves that way, ha. That pretty much left Stiles’s house as the go-to sanctuary, since Scott’s mom would’ve flipped her shit, and Allison’s was totally out of the question.

     Fortunately there was no parental unit around to notice the smell of burning rubber that lingered in the air or the fact that Stiles had stumbled home at three in the morning covered in an appealing combination of dirt and blood, and with an alleged murderer at his heels no less. He was pretty sure his dad would have something to say about at least one of those things, and Stiles was too jumped up on adrenaline to stomach the thought of trying to explain any of it.

     Speaking of stomachs, his gave an obnoxiously loud rumble as they careened past the kitchen. Derek’s hand fisted in the back of Stiles’s jacket and prevented him from detouring in that direction to raid the cupboard and all the Pop Tarts they sheltered. Fucking killjoy.

     “But I’m hungry,” Stiles whined as Derek steered him towards the stairs. He made a grabbyhands motion towards the fridge like his arms might do him a solid just this once and grow the few feet that separated Stiles from his prize.

     Derek showed no remorse. “It’s the adrenaline talking,” he informed Stiles briskly. “It’s gonna wear off in ten minutes, and then I’ll have to listen to you complaining about a stomach ache for the rest of the night.”

     “You could always just leave.”

     Jerking himself out of Derek’s grasp, Stiles attempted to stomp up the remaining few stairs to his room just to prove he could, but tripped a couple steps from the top and went sliding back down into Derek, limbs akimbo and chin bouncing off the riser hard enough to clack his teeth together. It should’ve been painful, but all Stiles registered was a dull ache; that was adrenaline for you.

     Stiles attempted to writhe onto his back and caught, instead, the sight of Derek’s arms pinwheeling hilariously. For a split second there was a distinct possibility Derek would lose his balance and fall on his ass, but then he stopped himself with a hand on the wall and the other slamming down between Stiles’s shoulder blades, forcing him back down against the steps as Derek went down on one knee.

     It might have been dark, but Stiles knew what he’d seen; thinking about what Derek might’ve looked like sprawled in a graceless heap at the foot of the stairs was enough to make him start to laugh. And once he started, he couldn’t stop.

      _That’d be the adrenaline, too_ , he thought hysterically, and even with Derek’s fist gripping his shirt, Stiles tried to curl into a ball to mitigate the force of his guffaws. This was better than being drunk and sure as fuck beat being high, since all that happened the first (and last) time Stiles smoked a doobie was that he got the world’s worst case of the pasties before the paranoia set in. Scott’d had to hold his hand until the pot wore off, just to reassure Stiles that he wasn’t _actually_ asphyxiating to death. He’d heard of adrenaline sparking all kinds of crazy reactions in people, too, but if all he had to cope with was poorer-than-usual coordination and a bad case of the giggles, he’d take it. He was pretty sure Derek was the last person who would stay up until 2:00 A.M. holding his hand, anyway.

Sure enough, Derek muttered an unimpressed-sounding “Idiot” and climbed to his feet, making sure to shove Stiles back against the stairs for good measure, even though he was already lying down and there was nowhere he could be shoved further, really. Stiles didn’t care. He continued to laugh until he was gasping and clutching his sides.

     “That shit would’ve been all over Facebook and Twitter in _seconds_ ,” hooted Stiles, knowing Derek knew exactly which eventuality-that-wasn’t he was referring to. “You’d have fucking trended so fast your tail would curl.”

     The growl that emerged from Derek’s chest didn’t quite sound like he was playing, not that Derek ever played, and before Stiles could utter any more about how many hits the Tumblr post would’ve gotten in an hour, there was another hand clenched in his sweater and Stiles was being hauled up against the wall. Derek got so far up in his grill that Stiles could feel the breaths puffing too fast out of Derek’s nose, could probably have counted the dots of his stubble had it not been so dark. It was a little unnerving, actually, and Stiles squirmed in a way that was partly begging to be released and partly to try to mitigate the sharp tingle of excitement that knifed through him at the contact. Fight or flight, supposed Stiles, and his body couldn’t seem to decide which it wanted more. In fact, it seemed to want to do everything at once, like Stiles had skipped his meds for a month and replaced the Adderall with speed. _Is it possible to overdose on adrenaline?_ he wondered. Right now Stiles felt so strung out on this natural high that he practically vibrated himself to a half-chub.

     “I can’t deal with you when you’re like this,” Derek informed him. Probably because his hands were currently busy balling themselves in Stiles’s clothes, Derek used his body to achieve the effect of a finger pointing in Stiles’s face. All it served to accomplish, however, was that Stiles got pressed even more firmly against the wall, and personal space became a bigger figment of his imagination than it normally was between him and Derek. “It’s obnoxious.”

     “Obnoxious?” Stiles chose to believe his voice emerged as a gasp because Derek wasn’t really giving him much room to draw air. He found himself squirming like a live wire, unable to control himself. “How the hell do you not find this, like, _exciting_? We just owned that life-or-death experience, man! Fucking dominated it. And now you tell me I don’t get to enjoy it even a little bit?”

     Derek snorted and his expression became unexpectedly wry. “Who said I don’t find it exciting? I just think you need to calm the hell down before you actually achieve liftoff. I didn’t save us from the Argents only to watch you crack your skull open off the edge of a wall.”

     “I’m not going to crack my head off anything. My dad barely bothered to de-childproof the house after I got diagnosed with ADHD—there’d have been no point. So you could stop being all growlypants for five seconds and just savour the buzz. And this buzz? Is awesome.” Stiles didn’t mean to, he honestly didn’t, but the words made him huff and push himself against Derek the way he might have given Scott a chuck on the shoulder midargument to punctuate something important. Only he couldn’t reach Derek’s shoulders, because his arms were kind of pinned, so he only managed a weak hip thrust that, in retrospect, could’ve been grossly misinterpreted under the circumstances.

     And, well. That interpretation wouldn’t have been so far off. Okay, sure, it wasn’t like Stiles actually intended to go rubbing himself against Derek, of all people, but if there was one thing he knew about near-death situations, it was that they were usually followed by Stiles rushing home to eat, dance, and jerk himself off into a stupor, and not always in that order. There was just something about the rush that made him want to fuck anything with a pulse (which his fist kind of did have) and then gorge himself into a sugar coma. More than usual, even, which was saying a lot for a sixteen-year-old boy.

      “Savour it, huh?” There was a bright gleam in Derek’s eyes that wasn’t quite the red tint of his wolfed-out self, but not far off it either. From the tone of his voice and the thoughtful, almost delicate way Derek leaned in to sniff Stiles’s jaw, there was a chance he knew a lot more about how Stiles typically burned off his adrenaline high than Stiles could’ve anticipated. Hell, maybe werewolves dealt with it the same way. The thought of Derek eating cupcakes and jerking off at the same time made Stiles snort out something caught between a frantic giggle and a moan. But if he hadn’t known any better, he’d say Derek looked a little punch-drunk right now, too.

     Swallowing the instinctive bolt of nervousness that wanted to crawl up out of his mouth and transform itself into full-on verbal diarrhea, Stiles forced himself to stay calm and shifted his body weight so he could lean more fully into Derek, letting the other man feel exactly what Stiles meant when he said this kind of shit got him _excited_. He thought he’d feel so proud of himself in the morning for meeting the challenge in Derek’s eyes, for refusing to apologize for his body’s perfectly normal response to not-so-normal circumstances, letting himself live in the moment and all that crap. YOLO, or something. Stiles was totally owning this motherfucker right now. Except that, whoa, holy shit, there was Derek’s erection pressing into his hip when he shifted his weight, and Stiles gave a yelp that couldn’t sound any less in control of the situation if it tried.

     The slight curl of Derek’s lips was dangerous and knowing. “Stiles,” he murmured, “I appreciate that you’re pretty much just succumbing to natural urges right now, but if you don’t choose to go to bed in the next five seconds, we’re going to have one hell of an awkward conversation on our hands tomorrow morning.”

     Eyes still on Stiles’s, Derek unbunched his hands from the fabric of his shirt and slid them down to bracket Stiles’s hips, which seemed to have taken on a life of their own in his attempts not to writhe like some wild, trapped thing. The pressure of Derek’s fingertips made him give an aborted jerk, and Stiles forced out a strangled “Why? Is there something I’m doing that makes you uncomfortable?”

     “You’re such a little shit,” huffed Derek, voice breaking around what could’ve been a chuckle but just as likely was a grunt of pleasure, since Stiles sure as hell couldn’t think of anything worth laughing about right now.

     Mouth uncomfortably dry—who was he kidding, this was _just_ like getting high—Stiles licked his lips and shuddered at the thrill that zinged through him when Derek’s eyes tracked the movement. “You could stop liking it so much, Sourwolf,” he challenged, albeit weakly. He barely got the last word out, though, ended up gasping it out into the shock of Derek’s mouth suddenly on his.

     The last time Stiles had kissed someone was in the seventh grade, the result of a token game of spin the bottle at a token middle-school birthday party—he was lucky if that kiss had lasted longer than half a second, barely more than the kind of peck you’d give an aged aunt. While it might not have been much, until now that’d been his fallback example when defending his lack of experience to outsiders. It was clear, however, that Stiles had been severely deluding himself when it came to knowing anything about what a real kiss was like.

     Until now. Derek kissed like an argument, like a fight, and if Stiles hadn’t been so turned on by the bite of Derek’s teeth and the slick, demanding pressure of his tongue, the traces of blood and dirt he could still taste from their tussle with the Argents, he’d have wanted to laugh at how even this was fraught with violence and competitiveness between them. But Stiles didn’t care, Christ did he ever not care, and despite his lack of experience—or perhaps because of it—he couldn’t not fight Derek back. Funny, but his version of fighting looked an awful lot like pulling Derek closer, manoeuvring his hands to where they could clutch at Derek’s waist under the leather jacket and reel him in.

     All this time, Stiles had thought he was waiting for the day when he’d finally get to lose his virginity, but right now he wondered if he hadn’t just been waiting for someone to come along and fuck him sideways with a kiss like this.

     When Stiles managed to insinuate his fingers beneath Derek’s shirt, scraping his nails along surprisingly soft, hot skin, Derek made a sound somewhere between and moan and a growl, and then suddenly Stiles was being fucking _hitched_ up and had to wrap his legs around Derek’s hips for stability. A picture frame rattled as his back slid up the wall, but Stiles hardly noticed it. All he could do was sling his arms around Derek’s neck and hold on for dear life as this new position slammed them together at just the right angle for Derek to rock up and into him. Wild. Totally wild. Ten minutes ago Stiles had been fantasizing about a box of Pop Tarts, and now he was frotting against the hottest guy he’d ever seen this side of Tom Hardy. That it was Derek freaking Hale made it that much more of a thrill, because Stiles had never, _ever_ thought he’d—

     “Oh God,” he gasped as Derek, breathing hard, dropped his mouth to suck and bite kisses into the tender flesh of Stiles’s neck, stubble rubbing the skin almost raw.

     Stiles was filthy from rolling around in the dirt, they both were, but Derek didn’t seem to care. He continued to grind himself against Stiles while Stiles rutted against his stomach, and it might’ve been way too soon for Stiles to feel remotely dignified about it, but he could already feel the agonizing heat of orgasm starting to burn in his belly with overwhelming persistence. The rub of denim against his cock created such shiver-perfect friction that he groaned deep in his throat, hands grabbing at the first thing they could reach, which happened to be Derek’s thick hair. When he got down to it, it turned out sex was about as easy as falling off a bike.

      “Derek, I’m gonna come soon,” he panted, face burning with shame but unable to deny it. He was sixteen and caught in a real-life wet dream. Just _thinking_ about something like this was normally enough to make him shoot faster than a Fourth-of-July firecracker.

     With a smirk, Derek pulled back to rub his beard across Stiles’s lips, then caught the edge of his chin with his teeth. “Oh yeah?”

     The lowness of his voice caused a full-body shudder in Stiles, gravel and promise that tingled down to his toes. He’d always sort of wondered what it would look like to see Derek go for broke in seducing someone, because you knew a man who looked like that had to be _good_ at that sort of thing, and now he knew.

     And fuck, did Derek ever not screw around. Still mouthing at the abused skin of Stiles’s jaw, Derek added, “Well, maybe you should just get it over with. Then I can show you what a real orgasm feels like when I put my dick in your ass.”

     How was Stiles supposed to not respond to that? The words—or more accurately, the mental image they evoked—came as such a shock that he cried out, fingers tightening in Derek’s hair and hips bucking involuntarily. He almost came on the spot before Derek moved, lightning fast, and hauled Stiles back down on top of the steps. Stiles landed on his ass with a stunned _oof_ and opened his mouth to ask what the hell Derek was doing, but his question was answered as Derek quickly tackled the button and zip of Stiles’s jeans, then pulled them down to his knees in one movement along with his boxers.

     Though Stiles flinched at the shock of cool air hitting his exposed skin, he’d yet to process what was happening when Derek pushed his shirt up and then dove in, capturing Stiles’s flushed cock between his lips without any warning. His hands were so warm against Stiles’s belly, calloused fingers caressing with unexpected gentleness even as Derek held him steady, stopped his hips from snapping up when Derek swallowed him down and down and down. He all but nuzzled into Stiles’s pubes, and the sandpaper of Derek’s beard scraped his balls and made him jolt and whimper so plaintively he ought to have been ashamed of himself.

     Stiles didn’t want to say he came instantly, but he came instantly, shouting, again gripping handfuls of Derek’s hair because it was like the whole fucking world had just fallen away. His spine bowed in an arc so sharp it was nearly painful, eyes squeezed shut against the tears that unexpectedly sprung up there. Derek gave an appreciative hum and took everything Stiles had to offer, no surprise and no hesitation as he drank him down. The orgasm seemed to go on so long Stiles wanted to sob with it, pleasure raking through him like electricity, like fire hollowing him out. It felt like hours before his hips stopped trying to fuck up into Derek’s face and the tremors started to ease, leaving him twitching and sucking in noisy breaths and crying because Jesus Christ he’d just seen the face of God.

     For a while Stiles could only lie there and stare at the ceiling, even after Derek had released him and laid a possessive, comforting hand against the base of his throat. His legs were still shaking where Derek knelt between them, using his body to keep Stiles from sliding the rest of the way down the stairs in a boneless puddle. Stiles blinked when Derek’s fingers brushed the tears from his cheeks and, when he’d come back to himself, found Derek watching him with an unreadable expression and big eyes.

     “Are you… okay?” Derek asked. He didn’t sound concerned, exactly, but his voice was tentative, puzzled; Stiles almost didn’t know what to make of it, but perhaps that best described his current state in general.

     Stiles shivered as feeling gradually returned to his limbs. He was surprised he didn’t feel more tired or wrung out. Normally it was hard for him to keep his eyes open post-orgasm, and he wondered whether residual adrenaline was keeping him awake, if the crash would be that much more intense later. “Depends on how you define ‘okay’,” he ventured, then fell silent when he realized he didn’t know how to define it either, and sure as hell couldn’t answer the question.

     Frowning, Derek chewed the inside of his cheek, and the gesture was so alarmingly uncertain and _young_ that Stiles was shocked by it, only remembering a moment later that Derek wasn’t that far out of his teens himself. The thought relaxed Stiles not at all, because at least one of them ought not to be flying blind here. He’d kind been of counting on it, in fact.

      “I guess we… got a little carried away,” Derek murmured after a lengthy pause, brow furrowed, as he helped Stiles up into a sitting position with one hand on his elbow. Stiles made a tiny sound at the head rush, swaying, and the grip didn’t loosen. Though Derek opened his mouth to say something else, he closed it again as his frown deepened instead. Then he said, “To be honest, Stiles, I’m a little afraid of what’s going through your head right now.”

     “Well, that’s nothing new.” Stiles bit his lip when he realized he’d said this out loud.

     But even that was easier than acknowledging what Derek was really trying to say—that he was worried Stiles regretted what’d just gone down, that some or all of it had happened against his will. Stiles attempted to work out whether it was really a problem. Sure, Derek kissing him had caught him a little off guard, and obviously neither of them had stopped to think the rest of it through, but Stiles decided he felt surprisingly okay for someone who’d literally tripped and lost his virginity. Maybe that was the shellshock talking, but he thought it was best to take one thing at a time. He could wait until tomorrow to have a minor nervous breakdown over the fact that he’d just had sex with the last person he swore ever to like.

     “What’s going through _your_ head?” he countered, deflecting because he didn’t know how to put any of that into words.

     “I’m a little afraid of that, too.”

     Right. This was Derek Hale he was talking to. The guy had the emotional range of a brick. Still, Stiles supposed it was a start that Derek admitted to being concerned about something other than effective intimidation tactics or moon phases. “So what now?”

     “That’s… a really loaded statement,” Derek told him, gaze unwavering.

     “Yeah, and what just happened wasn’t loaded at all,” Stiles retorted with an unimpressed grunt.

     With a roll of his eyes, Derek sat back a little on his haunches, putting a small but definite distance between them. “Stiles, I’m not saying I regret anything, but if we walk away now we can chalk it up to adrenaline-fueled stupidity and leave it at that. No one has to know, and we don’t have to talk about it again. We just go back to being… whatever we were before tonight.”

     He’d probably meant that a lot less offensively than it came out, but Stiles bristled. Derek could think what he wanted, but out of everyone they knew, he was _not_ the guy whose sanity would be called into question if the rest of the pack found out about this. Sure, Derek might look like a GQ model, but the last Stiles checked, being hot didn’t subtract from being weird and a freak and a Level-10 creeper. “And what was that, exactly?” he snapped.

     Derek shrugged. “Fucked if I know. But whether you want to call us friends, allies, or mortal enemies, all that changes unless I get up and step away from you right now. If I don’t, then this becomes something else entirely. Something deliberate and premeditated.”

     There was no way Derek could miss how badly Stiles had startled to tremble, shivering along the edge of what could be fear but tasted a lot more like disappointment. Stiles was pretty well acquainted with how that felt, and hated that he should be feeling it over Derek Hale of all people.

     “You make it sound like we’re about to commit mass murder,” he bit out. “If you don’t want to have sex with me, just fucking say it, dude. It’s not like you’d be the first person to turn me down.” Trying to snap himself out of it, he began to get up. He didn’t get far. Stiles looked down at the hand Derek had placed against his chest to hold him still.

     “Don’t put words in my mouth,” Derek admonished.

     “Oh, but putting my dick in your mouth is just fine?”

     “Very mature, Stiles.”

     “You’re the one who said it!”

     Derek gave an aggravated sigh and snatched his hand back, and Stiles took the opportunity to yank his jeans and underwear back up, hating how naked he felt. There was an uncomfortable silence as Derek watched him, but then he said, “What I want… or don’t want… isn’t the issue here,” and stared fixedly at Stiles’s collarbone. His collarbone, Stiles realized, because Derek couldn’t even look him in the eye right now. “It’s just… All I’m saying is it would be the easiest solution to the situation _before_ it becomes a problem.”

     Stiles wanted to say that none of it looked like an easy solution from where he was sitting; he wanted to say he didn’t even know what problem Derek was talking about. But that would’ve been a lie, and the expression on Derek’s face stopped him—he looked tired and unhappy, and Stiles’s snarky comments wouldn’t help matters any. He felt the anger drain out of him despite how hard he tried to hold on to it.

     Crap, maybe Derek had a point. He was just trying to unfuck the situation without making it worse, or trying to preserve Stiles’s—and his—integrity, or… something. Stiles ought to have been pissed that he was being forced to learn an uncomfortable lesson about the destructive powers of sex before he’d even had a proper taste of it, but suddenly he couldn’t summon the energy. Whether it was because of the inevitable adrenaline crash or because this whole scenario sucked balls was anyone’s guess.

     “I want to take a shower,” he said weakly. “There are no words for how gross I feel right now.”

     A momentary flash of hurt crossed Derek’s face, quickly replaced by a flat expression that was a little too neutral to ring true. “You smell pretty gross,” he said, and it was such a bad attempt to diffuse the tension that Stiles couldn’t pretend to be offended by it. This might’ve been the most awkward post-coital exchange in the history of awkward post-coital exchanges, but Stiles felt almost relieved to see Derek acting every bit as out of sorts as he felt.

     “There’s another shower in my dad’s bathroom if you want to get cleaned up, too,” he offered. Stiles wouldn’t kick Derek out or anything; if wanting to punch him in the nads was grounds to do so, they’d have run into serious problems long ago. Plus the Argents were probably still expecting him to go back to the warehouse to recoup, and Stiles might’ve been angry, but he wasn’t a dick.

     “Thanks,” said Derek. Hesitantly he asked, “Any chance I could throw my stuff in the wash? Doesn’t make much sense to shower and then put dirty clothes back on.”

     “I guess.” Stiles hitched a shoulder up. “Let me get you some stuff to wear until the laundry is done.”

 

 

* * *

 

     Finding Derek a set of clothes big enough to wear and getting a load of laundry on managed to hold off the crash of disappointment and adrenaline burnout until Stiles finally found himself alone, locked safely into the privacy of his own bathroom. The pipes in this old house shouldn’t have be able to handle two showers running at once, but he and Scott had cleaned themselves up after enough muddy romps through the woods to have disproved the possibility of the other guy’s water suddenly going scalding hot or painfully freezing. Not that it mattered, because Stiles was rocking the cold shower right now anyway.

     He so badly wished it wasn’t necessary, but there was a naked and soapy-wet Derek just a few feet down the hall where Stiles had let him use his dad’s ensuite. Not only did Stiles want to be able to shower in his own bathroom after this without trying to picture what Derek looked like with water sluicing down his stupidly defined musculature, but his shower stall was cramped and barely big enough to fit _him_ , let alone a guy almost twice Stiles’s size. He didn’t know why he was taking one for the team when Derek deserved a little discomfort—except, no, Stiles didn’t truly believe this was solely on Derek’s shoulders. Stiles had flirted. He’d _goaded_. He’d come on to Derek way before Derek came on to him. Rationally he knew Derek pushed him away later in an attempt to try and right the situation after the fact, for all the good it did.

     And it’d done so embarrassingly little. Stiles’s mind was helpless to keep itself from turning back to the scratch of Derek’s whiskers and the slick of his mouth, the way he’d lifted Stiles against him with no more difficulty than he would a rag doll. It was funny how Stiles always knew it’d be like that; how, at the same time, it was like he didn’t know anything at all. He just remembered how excited he’d felt, maybe the greatest rush ever, how hard it’d made him. God, how hard he was again _now_.

     Trying to concentrate instead on getting himself cleaned up, Stiles furiously worked at the layers of dirt and grime and blood, though he couldn’t be sure whom it belonged to since he wasn’t hurt anywhere. Bruised, yes—he always looked like a walking advertisement for domestic abuse—but miraculously not cut anywhere. Must’ve been Derek’s.

     Not that Stiles was thinking about Derek in the shower or anything. He scrubbed until he was pink and sore, distracting himself with pain, but there’s no stopping the tiny, frustrated sounds he made at every brush of his wrists against his cock, the thick need in his belly that made him give up the pretense of not needing more than the casual touch of his own hand. He should just rub one out and be done with it, not waste another thought on the subject, but Stiles knew himself well enough to dismiss the idea as bullshit. He could’ve stood here whacking it ’til his hands fell off and be just as obsessed with the taste of Derek’s tongue in the morning.

     It wasn’t as though he hadn’t heard what the guy said. He had, and contrary to appearances he’d actually tried to listen to Derek’s reasoning, understanding as much as a dumb kid of sixteen could understand of these things, especially with need overriding pretty much everything but the urge to _want, take, have_. But it was like Stiles had wandered too close to an open coalmine with a lit candle or something; now there was a fire he couldn’t put out. He gave his dick one quick, conciliatory stroke, hoping it might be enough of a compromise for his body to calm the fuck down, but all it did was frustrate him further and incite him to bang his forehead against the shower wall a couple times, cursing, until his skull hurt. Bizarrely enough, it seemed to crystallize things for him, though that could’ve been the latent brain damage talking.

     Still, Stiles didn’t even pretend not to feel relieved when his next actions were to turn off the water and grab a towel. On the way out he caught a glimpse of himself in the fogged-up mirror, and paused to swipe a hand through the moisture so he could see his reflection. He gave a start at the swollen redness of his mouth, the bruises already starting to form on his neck where Derek had done a number on him. Shuddering, he marched himself out of the bathroom and down the hall to where another shower continued to run.

     Either werewolf hearing wasn’t so great in the shower or Derek was giving him some weird gesture of courtesy, but Stiles’s entrance into his dad’s ensuite went unacknowledged. The master bath had been renovated a couple years before Stiles’s mom died, making room for a sweet claw-foot tub and a spacious shower stall, and he could see Derek clearly through the glass door. His back was to Stiles and the rest of the room, leaning against the wall with one hand to support himself. Stiles didn’t miss the faint possibility that Derek was a bit of a shower-hog, based not only on how long he’d been in here, but also on the limp, appreciative droop of his head under the spray, looking like he wanted to drink the water in with his whole body.

     But Stiles could only concentrate on that for a second before his eyes were all but dragged forcibly down. Lower and lower, so he could take in what Derek seemed to think Stiles should be missing out on—the triskele tattoo stark against the pale skin of Derek’s back, his trim waist, the obnoxiously firm glutes that practically made Stiles’s mouth water on the spot, as visceral a reaction as he might’ve had to a really great pair of tits. He supposed, visually speaking, the perfect cleft of Derek’s ass didn’t look all that different from a nice display of cleavage, and at the thought Stiles emitted a squeak that finally compelled Derek to turn around.

     Afraid of losing momentum, Stiles ignored the startled look on Derek’s face and dropped his towel, making himself take the few remaining steps towards the shower so he could open the stall door and step inside that cocoon of warmth and steam.

     He blurted out the one thing that’d been circling around his mind pretty much nonstop this past little while, taking advantage of Derek’s surprised silence. “Did you… did you mean what you said before?” he asked. “About the—” Finally, it was too much to say out loud. Stiles snapped his mouth shut as his cheeks flushed red and tingly, which, if anyone asked, he’d blame on the heat.

     The way Derek had his fists clutched to his chest made Stiles think of that thing girls always did in movies to cover themselves when someone surprised them in the shower. It was funny but completely ineffective, since Stiles had seen Derek’s chest about a million times and the rest of him never. He’d look his fill now, but hello, rude. Even if he was so, so curious, so fucking _hungry_. Instead he noticed there were suds on Derek’s hands he was trying to hold away from the spray; a second after that, his brain made the connection between those soap-slick mitts and the fact that Stiles wasn’t the only one who’d escaped into the shower with a boner.

     “About what?” Derek eventually responded, eyebrows deeply troubled. Stiles liked that Derek got how pointless it’d be to question Stiles’s presence in the shower right now, jumping instead to the main event.

     Stiles really wished he could clarify what he meant without having to say it, but his furious hand gestures didn’t seem to cut it. At least not judging by how Derek continued to stare at him. “About showing me what a real orgasm feels like,” he managed to squeak, voice intimidated down to a near-whisper.

     There was sure as hell no way he could look Derek in the eye and repeat the part about _Derek’s dick in his ass_. Except—holy fuck, he wanted it so bad, wanted Derek to show him how good it could be. The thought alone sent a shiver through him, and he blushed further. Stiles figured there was no turning back from the fact that Derek had sucked his cock, right? Might as well go big or go home. At this point they were practically doing each other a favour by putting themselves out of their misery. Collaboration at its finest.

     He didn’t miss the way Derek’s pale eyes narrowed at the words, glaring down at him as though angry. His eyelashes were glued together in spikes from the water and made his eyes look even more arresting. And they definitely were that—arresting. Not dark and predatory like before Derek had kissed him, but sharp. Interested, maybe, if Stiles could guess what interested looked like. He hadn’t had his throat cut yet, at any rate.

     “We talked about this,” Derek said with something approaching patience.

     “No,” Stiles corrected, finding his bravado, or his balls, or both, “ _you_ talked, and I just didn’t argue. At some point it had to have occurred to you I’d find a flaw in your logic eventually, something to object to. I always do.”

     Fed up with the idea they could spend more time dancing around this, Stiles decided to go for broke and reached out to curl his hand around where Derek was still impressively aroused.

     “You said you thought grinding this amusement park ride to a halt was the easiest solution for both of us,” he said, voice wavering only a little bit. “But frankly things are looking pretty hard from where I’m standing.”

     There was no mistaking the puff of air that hissed past Derek’s lips or the warning flash of his teeth. “You’re sixteen,” he bit out, the strain of control clear in his voice.

     “So? How old were you when you lost your virginity?”

     For a moment there was nothing but the overloud sound of the shower spray, and if Stiles couldn’t see his chest moving he’d think Derek had stopped breathing for a second. But then his jaw worked angrily and he spit out a bitten-off “Fifteen.”

     Whoa. Well, okay. That wasn’t quite the answer Stiles had expected, but he could work with that. Plenty of people lost their virginity early—just look at England. He knew about snog culture from _Skins_. Stiles was a lot closer to fifteen than seventeen at this point if you wanted to look at it that way, and most of his friends had lost their V-cards around the beginning of sophomore year anyhow.

     He was about to open his mouth to respond when Derek cut him off, saying, “Stiles, trust me, my experience is not a point in your favour in this case, so don’t even try to use it. You’re a… a _pup_. At this age you don’t think there’s anything you can lose that you might want back.” He sounded distinctly sad, and Stiles wondered if Derek wasn’t projecting a little bit over the innocence he lost too young.

     Well, join the freaking club. Stiles had seen a lot more that would scar him for life than a twenty-two-year-old werewolf who’d accidentally deflowered a minor. He hadn’t felt like a kid for a while now, and there were far bigger things for him to worry about in his life than spreading his legs for a less-than-expected someone in less-than-expected circumstances. Like not dying or watching his friends die. You know, regular teenage stuff. Stiles wouldn’t deny he might’ve pictured it going down differently, but he wasn’t going to play a bunch of Taylor Swift and cry himself to sleep later. Quite frankly, this conversation, while excruciating, was the first thing Stiles had done in a while that felt normal, like a reprieve.

     “What I am is horny and a virgin, not stupid,” he corrected, anger sharpening his words. “I know perfectly well what it means to get hurt and lose things you wish would come back every day.” Derek looked chastened at that, probably remembering about Stiles’s mom, and to make the look of pity go away Stiles tightened his fingers around the heft of Derek’s cock, the warmth and wetness of which made his own erection throb in excitement or sympathy, he couldn’t decide which. “But I’m also of pretty freaking sound mind right now, and nothing in my life has been easy since I met you. I don’t even know what easy looks like anymore. Even if I did, that isn’t what I want.”

     “I thought you wanted Lydia,” countered Derek.

     “I decided I wanted Lydia when I was five years old,” Stiles pointed out. “At that age my backup plan was to marry a T-Rex.” Yeah, he wasn’t stupid enough not to know his affinity for Lydia Martin was more figurative at this stage, though he thought he’d probably slept through English class on the day they talked about symbolism anyway. Nerves starting to fail him, Stiles pushed forward with an annoyed grunt and blurted out, “Right now what I want is you, okay? So just… stop fucking condescending to me, and either put me out of my goddamned misery or kiss me, dude.”

     The seconds crawled by as Derek simply looked at him, watching Stiles’s face like he was trying to decide whether Stiles was full of shit or secretly a genius. Which, obviously. His heart may have been pounding in his throat, but Stiles wasn’t lying, wasn’t uncertain, and knew Derek knew it. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but release the breath he’d been holding when Derek leaned forward and pressed their mouths together, infinitely slower than before, but a proper, deep kiss.

     Stiles didn’t quite know what he was doing, didn’t know how to make it good like Derek could, so the best thing he could think of was to copy the movements of Derek’s lips, the way his tongue flickered out or how he occasionally tugged on Stiles’s bottom lip with his teeth. It felt awesome, and Stiles moaned into it and reached up to tug Derek closer with his hands in his hair, wrapping those sopping dark waves around his fingers. Now there was _definitely_ no denying the hard jump his cock gave when he canted his hips to rub against Derek’s groin, good like before times infinity now that they were both naked.

     Derek broke off from the kiss with a low sound, forcing Stiles a step away from him with hands on either side of Stiles’s face. It wasn’t to signal refusal, Stiles realized a second later; Derek wanted to look at him. Embarrassment coloured his cheeks as Derek stopped and dragged his gaze down the full length of Stiles’s body, eyes taking everything in with deliberate slowness. Stiles wasn’t built like Danny or Jackson or even Scott (that he was no Derek either went without saying), but he didn’t _think_ he had anything to be ashamed about, even if he was suddenly really glad for the weights he’d purchased last summer. Derek didn’t seem to have any complaints either. When he lifted his eyes back up to meet Stiles’s gaze, mouth slack with want, it was an undeniably heady sensation.

     The feeling made Stiles brave, and he arched his body against Derek’s, rubbing. “C’mon, kiss me,” he murmured.

     To his relief, Derek didn’t fight him and did as asked, gathering him up into in arms and slotting their mouths together. Stiles stumbled backwards until he hit the shower wall, shoulder blades jarring against the cool tile. Once again he found himself hefted up and his legs wrapped around Derek’s waist, the effect all the more potent for the slippery glide of wet skin against skin. Without even trying, Derek’s cock located the strip behind Stiles’s balls and nudged against it, then prodded even farther back until there was undeniable pressure against his hole that made Stiles immediately clench up in excitement, his breathing going erratic. They were just rutting and it didn’t seem deliberate, but Stiles mewled his approval and was met by a sharp tug at his bottom lip by Derek’s teeth. His fingers gripped into the muscles of Stiles’s ass with the sweetest fucking bite he’d ever felt.

     “You make me crazy,” Derek harshed out, pulling his mouth away for a second only to reattach it to the skin near Stiles’s ear where, presumably, there would be a mark later. The thought made Stiles groan almost as much as the idea that he had any kind of effect on Derek at all, let alone the kind that made him question his sanity. He tilted his head to the side so his neck was bared, and Derek pressed him even harder into the wall. There was a brief scrape of human teeth against his throat and Derek added, “You have no idea how crazy.”

     Stifling a manic giggle, because this really wasn’t the time or place for Stiles to lose his grip, he fisted his hands into the dripping mass of Derek’s hair and jerked his head up, forcing him to look Stiles in the eye. “I have a pretty good idea,” he said, or more like panted. “Getting better by the second.”

      For once Stiles’s natural restlessness seemed to serve some purpose, as the little uncontrollable rolls and bucks of his pelvis rubbed his cock against Derek’s abs and Derek’s cock against his ass, concentrating a bit more sensation on the lower half of Stiles’s body than he thought he could handle. Tiny gasps and whimpers fell from his mouth faster than he could try to bite them back. Derek obviously approved, rumbling a moan deep in his chest that made all the skin on Stiles’s shoulders, chest, and arms prickle.

     “You like that?” Derek asked, letting Stiles ride up against him like he could do this all day.

     “Feels really good,” Stiles agreed. “But Derek, I need—” His own impatient grunt cut off the thought, but he hoped Derek got the hint and did something. He didn’t care what, as long as it was _more_. Stiles might’ve been new at this, but he was getting the impression sex was like a hard-to-reach itch; scratching once wasn’t enough. You had to keep doing it harder and harder to get that little bit of relief, and it was so much better if someone else did it for you.

     At that, Derek shot him the most uncanny of smiles, as if Derek smiling wasn’t weird enough already. Although he barely did more than give a sexy curl of his lips, it was like catnip to Stiles’s over-stimulated brain, and he whined helplessly.

     But Derek was already lowering himself down to the floor, hands firm on Stiles’s waist to steady him on his wobbly legs. “I know what you need,” he promised, eyes a darker, more vivid green than Stiles had ever seen them, and then without warning Stiles was being turned and shoved back up against the shower wall by strong hands against his shoulders.

     He began to say, “What are you—” at the series of kisses, licks, and nips that trailed down the centre of his back, only to have his question abruptly answered as he felt his ass cheeks spread open by Derek’s fingers and Derek’s face suddenly, unbelievably insinuated in between, his mouth hot and open and _there_ against the absolute core of him.

     “Oh my _God_ ,” Stiles yelped and curled his fingers against the tiles. Clawed at them.

     He instinctively tried to move away from Derek’s mouth, his _tongue_ , Jesus, but was held securely in place, and only succeeded in smushing his face into the wall like he could melt right into it. If Stiles’s legs had been unsteady before they were little better than rubber now, threatening to give out as every nerve in his body seemed to focus dead on the sensation of Derek eating him out, doing the most unspeakable fucking things to Stiles’s asshole, things not even Stiles could’ve thought of in his filthiest dreams. He’d always loved seeing men get rimmed in videos but never pictured it happening to him, not like this, Derek’s mouth both everything and nothing he’d ever imagined.

     The rasp of stubble against Stiles’s skin tingled like electricity, little shocky bursts of pleasure that made him shudder and gasp and twitch back against Derek uncontrollably. Even the water raining down against his back added to the overwhelming mix of sensations. Derek’s chin scraped deliciously along his perineum and then a soothing tongue followed, long, slow laps like Stiles was an ice cream cone on a hot day, kisses trailing lower momentarily before Derek pressed his face back in against Stiles’s ass, so close not even air could pass between them.

     Stiles found himself crying out, voice pitching higher as Derek’s tongue jabbed into him in the dirtiest way possible, and he could hardly believe he was the one making those sounds, pornographic moans and ecstatic shouts. He begged and begged. When fingers slid into his crease and one of them gradually insinuated its way inside him, working the ring of muscles loose even as Derek continued to suck and lick and fuck into him like a machine, Stiles thought he might pass out on the spot. He didn’t know if he could come from this but sure as hell might die from it.

     It seemed to go on for hours, and then Derek stopped, suddenly, just when Stiles felt he was on the brink of delirium, trembling and incoherent with pleasure. Derek’s slow slide back up his body gave Stiles something to lean into, though, and he let himself be supported against that firm chest so they could both catch their breath; he sighed at the gentle kisses Derek pressed into the nape of his neck and arched, rubbing against the erection lined up with the crack of his ass. Stiles allowed his head to be turned when Derek placed dripping fingers alongside his chin, and their lips met in a kiss that was slow and a bit slack. The most coordination Stiles could manage was a gentle lipping against Derek’s mouth. By now the shower had gone barely lukewarm and he shivered.

     “Come on,” Derek said, noticing. He pulled away enough to reach the faucet and turned off the water. Promise was thick in his voice when he added, “Let’s go to your bedroom.”

     There was a brief intermission where they roughly dried themselves off with towels from the rack. Stiles wrapped his around his waist, though Derek, typically, couldn’t summon enough modesty to cover himself. Then again, maybe modesty was totally moot at this point.

     They moved in silence down the hall to Stiles’s room. Stiles couldn’t help but feel brave and shy all at once, mesmerized by the raw beauty of Derek’s body like a moth struck stupid by the blinding lure of a flame, but also unable to meet his eyes. Suddenly unsure what was even the right thing to say in this situation—Derek, inscrutable as usual, was no freaking help—he distracted himself by flicking on his desk lamp to chase away the claustrophobic darkness.

     He jumped when Derek came up behind him to clasp his warm palms over Stiles’s hips, dipping in to caress the soft skin of his belly. Derek’s nails scraped fleetingly against the trail of hair leading down from Stiles’s navel to where it disappeared beneath the towel. The hold Derek had on him was a confusing mix of gentle and possessive, fingertips pressing into flesh, not quite bruising but firm enough to suggest Derek wouldn’t let him go easily, that he was prepared to manoeuver Stiles wherever he wanted.

     And where Derek wanted him was right here, apparently, judging by the decisive way he stripped the towel off and dropped it to the floor before pushing Stiles forward. He forced him to bend at the waist, causing Stiles’s hands to fly out to catch himself against the desk. Derek’s foot kicked his legs further apart and Stiles had no choice by to obey, spreading his thighs and digging his fingers into the wooden surface upon which he did his homework every night. He gasped, prepared for what was coming but not like this, not _here_ , and yet Stiles couldn’t deny the vicious thrill of pleasure that swept through him at the thought that he was going to get fucked over his desk like, like... a schoolgirl in a bad porno or something. There was a perfectly good bed five feet away, but the fact that Derek couldn’t even be bothered to wait that long made Stiles pant with echoing need, made him arch his back and thrust his ass out like he couldn’t imagine it any other way.

     The pained moan that hissed past Derek’s lips was a clue he’d done something right, and the other man’s hand gentling down the serrated edge of his spine was proud, approving. “Where’s your lube?” Derek grated out, rocking his pelvis against Stiles’s ass.

     “Desk drawer, on the right,” Stiles panted. He had a couple stashes in his room—here and in the bedside table, the two places he did most of his jerking off. At first he’d only invested in a single bottle of lube, but quickly realized getting up from in front of the computer was sometimes too much trouble; and no one honestly believed a teenaged boy kept a bottle of hand cream on his desk for cuticle emergencies.

     Derek dug around in the drawer for a second before withdrawing the tube of slick, then said, “And condoms?”

     Stiles grunted. “Other drawer.”

     There were another few moments of shuffling around before Derek withdrew a handful of foil wrappers, the rubbers inside a rainbow of garish colours. “Where the hell did you get these?” he asked with an edge of laughter in his voice. Stiles turned his head to look when Derek held up a glow-in-the-dark condom. “Really?”

     “Safe sex assembly,” Stiles answered simply. It wasn’t like he’d been out having sex at every available opportunity that he needed to buy condoms of his own. The only thing that had stopped him from forking over his loot bag to Scott was the little voice in his head that’d said, _You never know_. Clearly that little voice knew something Stiles didn’t. “They handed them out to everyone for free. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

     Chuckling, Derek flipped through the packets until he found one that wasn’t flavoured or otherwise obnoxious looking. The rest he tossed back into the drawer, and then Stiles buried his head in his arms as he heard Derek tear open the foil and, presumably, roll the rubber down over himself. Next he reached for the lube and clicked open the cap, and there was the sound of gel being squeezed onto fingers and then something being slicked up. Stiles had seen enough porn to imagine exactly what Derek was doing, and he shuddered out a sigh of anticipation, ass wiggling unconsciously.

     He braced for what he assumed must come next, the blunt head of Derek’s cock pressing against his entrance, but he flinched in surprise when he got a finger circling his hole instead, too confident to be teasing but more tender than he expected. Derek placed his other hand against the back of Stiles’s neck, warm and reassuring.

     “Dude, enough,” Stiles whined, pushing his hips back against Derek’s body. “Just give it to me already.”

     Unbelievably, Derek cuffed him lightly on the back of the head before returning his hand to Stiles’s neck. “Always so fucking impatient. You’ll thank me in a minute,” he chided, and then his slippery finger was working itself inside. It was a familiar feeling, both from when Derek had done this in the shower and from the times Stiles had fingered himself in the past, alone and curious, but a second finger added a moment later caught him by surprise and wrenched an animal-sounding groan from his throat.

     Never had Stiles been so aware of the thickness of Derek’s fingers as now, the two of them equal to three of Stiles’s, stretching him open with firm gentleness that had an edge of pain to it, but mostly had him spreading his legs for more. The lube helped Derek slide easily in and out as the muscles loosened and Stiles got used to the feeling of being opened up like this, and at the prod of a third finger he mewled, deliriously thinking, _Three-finger rule_ , and propped his shoulders against the surface of the desk so he could reach back and hold his own ass open to Derek’s gaze. That was pretty slutty, okay, but you didn’t get your entire sex education online without picking up a few ideas and tricks.

     “Fuck,” Derek gasped, sounding like the word was punched out of him, and the hand on Stiles’s nape tightened. Stiles shouldn’t have felt half as gratified by that as he did.

     Derek withdrew his digits for a brief second before he pushed all three home. The burn was the most delicious thing Stiles had ever felt. He was loose enough now that Derek could shove in far enough to reach his prostate, nudging against it with a sure, relentless pressure that had Stiles crying out and shaking with pleasure that was almost more intense than half the actual orgasms he’d had in his life, and he wasn’t even there yet. His cock was throbbing and pulsing precome against his stomach, trapped between his body and the desk.

     “Please now,” he begged, and Derek didn’t argue with him this time, pulling his fingers out and immediately replacing them with the head of his cock. They both moaned at the contact. Stiles suddenly understood the wisdom of Derek having put the condom on earlier, so he could slide in without further ado, just like this.

     Also true to Derek’s word, he was grateful indeed Derek had bothered to stretch him beforehand, because while the feeling of taking a cock for the first time wasn’t as painful as it would’ve been without preparation, it was still intense enough to make Stiles keen a long, low note of discomfort as his body attempted to accommodate Derek’s not-unimpressive girth. He thought of every description he’d ever read of being split open, filled to bursting, and decided none of it did the experience any justice.

     “Easy,” murmured Derek, entering him nice and slow. He replaced Stiles’s hands on the top of the desk and then spent a few minutes rubbing warm, pleasant circles over his back, caressing the skin in a way that both distracted and added to the intensity of everything going on. “Push out a little against me and relax. Breathe. You’re doing fine.”

     Clenching his teeth, Stiles sucked in a breath and said, “Hurts,” but didn’t ask him to stop, for the first time in maybe ever concentrating on doing as he was told, getting used to the feeling of Derek inside him even as he needed more, more, more.

     “That’ll pass.” Derek sounded calm and surprisingly patient, taking his time and pausing whenever Stiles made a sound that could’ve been pain, watching his responses for cues on what hurt, what felt good, how much Stiles could take. They’d always had the silent communication thing down pat but never, Stiles thought, like this.

     It seemed like forever before Derek finally pushed all the way in, which Stiles only knew because Derek’s pelvis bumped the curve of his upturned ass. Entwining their fingers, Derek blanketed himself over Stiles’s back in a way that should’ve felt smothering but wasn’t. He was immediately comforted by having Derek in such close proximity, chest firm against his shoulder blades and heart thumping a strong, reassuring tattoo. The sensation of lips pressing kisses into the side of his neck sent something hot and unexpected flickering through Stiles’s body.

     Though Stiles kept thinking he knew what came next, primed for Derek to pull out and thrust back in, he waited for it and waited for it until he found himself shifting impatiently, bumping himself back against Derek’s body in a clear entreaty for him to do something. He was so busy being desperate for more that it took Stiles a moment to realize that was probably Derek’s intention all along, getting him relaxed and distracted enough for the pain to fade into a memory. Clever.

     A shiver ran through him when Derek’s mouth brushed his ear. “You feel unbelievable,” came the whisper, and Stiles groaned softly at that, at the uncomplicated honesty in Derek’s voice, like being told “The sky is blue” or “It’s raining.” He moaned a bit louder when Derek took the noise as encouragement to slide his dick a little ways out and then in again, sparking warmth like Stiles couldn’t believe. The force of it scared him a little. “Always knew you would.”

     “Well, I’m glad _you_ feel that way, because I feel like I’m gonna pass out,” he countered with a breathless laugh, which was probably inappropriate for the situation but escaped without his permission. This was kind of like being drunk, overwhelmed and intoxicated to the point that consciousness no longer seemed like a given.

     Derek nuzzled closer to his mouth. “That’d be a shame.” He shifted and slid his arms under Stiles’s chest, one hand curling around his shoulder and the other placed lightly against the base of his throat, then started rolling his hips in easy, gentle movements that threatened the stability of Stiles’s knees. For a moment he wished he could see the ripple of Derek’s muscles as they coiled and flexed with the smooth undulations of his body. Oh God. Stiles might actually not live through the night. He’d survived kanimas and deranged Alpha werewolves and hunters with guns, only to die from Derek’s cock overloading his brain’s pleasure centres. “I’d have to do this all over again when you woke up so you would appreciate it properly.”

     “Which in no way suggests you wouldn’t still keep going even if I was unconscious, right?” Stiles observed weakly.

     The quiet moan Derek breathed against his ear was oddly gratifying. “I wouldn’t stop fucking you if the world was ending,” he said.

     Stiles all but choked on the shocked noise that worked its way up out of his throat at that, but a particularly hard thrust had him yelping and uttering, “Oh God, oh God,” over and over, especially when he fucking _heard_ Derek’s grin as he started pounding into Stiles in a punishing rhythm. “What are you—”

     “Obviously not giving it to you hard enough if you’re still talking,” Derek panted out by way of explanation, sounding a bit strained himself.

     He pulled Stiles more upright so they were pressed chest to back, holding him in place so Stiles couldn’t simply slump forward in a boneless heap. With the desk no longer in reach, Stiles flailed his arms momentarily until he anchored his hands around Derek’s forearms, locking them together. Each slap of Derek’s hips against his ass sent his cock bouncing off his stomach, sparking pleasure through him like bright fireworks, and Stiles arched until his head touched Derek’s shoulder. When he turned to look at Derek’s face, needing some kind of visual connection other than the sight of his messy desk and the posters on his bedroom wall, he found the werewolf’s mouth right there next to his, Derek’s lips parted and bitten red. Eyes locking, it was like nothing to initiate a kiss, even a sloppy one, mouths mashed together and teeth clacking. A subtle adjustment of Derek’s hips had him driving against that unbelievably sensitive place inside, and then Stiles’s shocked cries were thrown into the mix, too, swallowed up by Derek’s greedy mouth.

     Stiles heard himself sob when, suddenly, Derek stopped, but he didn’t have time to ask what the fuck had happened before Derek—gently, to Stiles’s surprise—pulled out and swung Stiles away from the desk, manhandling him towards the bed until Stiles’s calves hit the mattress and he fell backwards with a grunt. Derek was on him in an instant, kissing him dizzy and stroking his hands over seemingly every inch of Stiles’s over-sensitized skin, nails blunt and human but still long enough to scratch pink lines into his skin. Everything after that happened in a confusing blur of motion as Derek hiked Stiles’s ankles up against his shoulders, fingers dug into the muscles of his thighs, and then he was pushing back inside in one confident thrust that wrenched Stiles’s mouth open even though no sound came out.

     Of course, that lasted about three seconds until Derek hefted him into the ideal position, and every one of his thrusts started ramming Stiles’s prostate with startling precision. Then the moans came tumbling out of him. Derek knew his aim was good; a flash of a grin appeared, his teeth glinting, and then it was replaced by a look of serious concentration.

     For lack of anything better to latch on to, because Derek was just slightly beyond his reach, Stiles grabbed fistfuls of his sheets and tried to anchor himself to something real as his body threatened to revolt. Actual shouts tore his throat ragged, his voice a wild, frantic thing he barely recognized. Derek was noisy, too, surprisingly so, huffing out broken sounds and murmurs of Stiles’s name, whispered words of praise. His expression was pleasure-drunk as he gazed down at Stiles, skin flushed, eyes hot, mouth soft and surprised. Stiles was almost more mesmerized by that than the marvel of Derek’s body, the muscles in his arms, chest, torso bunched and straining as he heaved himself into Stiles again and again.

     Without warning, Derek pitched forward and began shoving Stiles farther up the mattress so he could climb on top, hooking Stiles’s knees over his elbows as he went. The new angle pushed Stiles’s legs against his shoulders and opened him wider, took Derek impossibly deeper. Leaning in, he caught Stiles’s mouth up in a bruising kiss even as his punishing thrusts continued to rock the bed and them on it. The slam of the headboard was probably audible halfway across the neighbourhood, and Stiles couldn’t have given less of a fuck. Everything that wasn’t Derek—them, this—fell away. He slung an arm around Derek’s neck and simply hung on for his life.

     “Touch yourself,” Derek barked out, gasping around the words, and Stiles couldn’t tell if it was desperation or severity in his voice, but he did as he was told, working a hand down between their bodies. He wrapped his fingers around his cock and started stripping himself fast, massaging the spot beneath the head with his thumb in the way that always made him come hard. Somehow he knew, from Derek’s expression, there was no stopping this train now for either of them.

     He’d never thought of pleasure as frightening before. Stiles thought he might be coming apart like the old tree in the backyard that’d been struck by lightning when he was twelve, splintered into a thousand unrecognizable shards in a burst of light that was terrifying as it was beautiful. “Oh fuck, Derek,” he whimpered, eyes wide and startled in his face as their gazes locked, blurry-focused from up close. “I can’t—I’m gonna—”

     The broken moan Derek flung out was all he needed to trip over the edge into his release, keening into Derek’s mouth as the fire grabbed him and burned inside until Stiles thought he forgot his own name, come jetting out over his hand and across his belly and chest, splashing the underside of his chin. Barely four seconds passed, or close enough in Stiles’s woozy approximation, and Derek jerked and shoved into him a half dozen more times. Buried as deep as he could go, he cried out against the corner of Stiles’s lips and shook with the force of his own orgasm.

     Time always seemed to transform into a theoretical concept when Stiles found himself coming down from a sex high. It turned out sex with another person—Derek, more specifically—knocked him for even more of a loop than usual. He had no idea how long it took him to float back to himself, registering the slowly lengthening breaths of the body on top of him and the ridiculous amount of sweat drenching them both, but it wouldn’t have surprised him if hours had passed. Days, even. Derek had let Stiles’s arms fall so they were wrapped loosely around his waist—more of a graceless sprawl, really, and it seemed Derek’s cock had slipped out of him at some point as well, leaving a weird feeling of lack in its place.

     Wondering if this was what a fugue state felt like, Stiles resolved to ask Lydia later, then returned his attention to Derek with a sigh that still sounded a bit shuddery to his own ears. Derek had his face pressed into Stiles’s neck and was breathing wetly against his skin, but he, too, seemed to realize the moment Stiles rejoined the land of the living, and lifted his head ever so slightly to meet Stiles’s gaze. His expression was wary.

     Stiles said the first thing that popped into his head. “Hi.”

     Derek approximated what Stiles thought was a smile by pressing his lips together slightly, though there was strain in the slant of his eyebrows. How he even had enough energy left to be tense at this point, Stiles couldn’t guess. But Derek said a tentative “Hi” back, which was a start.

     He had a brief moment of panic when Derek disentangled himself to slide off the bed, but Stiles relaxed when he saw Derek grab the discarded towel off the floor and wipe himself down with it. Derek also pulled off the condom and tied it before flinging it into the trashcan by Stiles’s desk, and then he returned to the bed. Gently he began to clean Stiles up, swiping carefully at the inside of his thighs as well as his stomach and chest; he even managed to wipe the glob of jizz that had splattered beneath Stiles’s chin.

     It was awkward, just lying there while Derek cleaned him up, so Stiles said, “So that happened. All deliberate and premeditated and everything.” He gestured vaguely between their naked bodies, only to grimace when he realized his hand was covered in come.

     Derek noticed and took a moment to clean his palm and fingers, getting right in between, though he responded only with a clipped “Yes.” Any other time, Stiles would’ve enjoyed seeing Derek look so uncomfortable, but he barely had a chance to file the expression away before the awkwardness transformed into something more concerned. “How are—” Derek began, sounding hesitant, then broke off abruptly. “Are you hurt?”

     Grunting a short laugh, Stiles arched his eyebrows. “Did it _look_ like you were hurting me, dude?” Derek didn’t respond except to furrow his brows more, so Stiles decided to let him off the hook easy. “The answer to that question is no. Pretty much as far away from hurting me as it’s possible to be. Except for that bit at the beginning, but even that was kind of enjoyable. Part of the experience. Like how Jack Daniels is super gross at first but then totally worth it a few minutes later.”

     The towel got tossed away into a nearby pile of laundry. Derek crossed to the desk to turn off the lamp. Moving confidently through the sudden darkness, he crawled back onto the bed but lay down beside Stiles instead of on top of him. “So I’m super gross JD,” he said flatly.

     His deadpan delivery made Stiles want to thwap him, but that kind of seemed like advanced pillow talk and he was still figuring out the basics. Clumsily. “Did you hear the part where I said ‘totally worth it’?” he shot back. A moment later he added, more gently, “You made me feel really good.”

     There was a slight softening about the mouth Stiles would’ve missed had he not been watching Derek’s face intently, but it was quickly covered up with a smirk. “Did I?” There wasn’t a trace of insecurity in the words, but Stiles couldn’t shake the niggling feeling that it was more than a rhetorical question. Or maybe he was just projecting. If he’d had barely a second to get a thought in edgewise as Derek was manhandling him around, fucking the anxiety right out of him, Stiles probably would’ve hyperventilated himself into a coma over whether or not he’d done any of the right things, if his kissing sucked or if Derek thought he was too skinny, or, or, or.

     He reached up and touched Derek’s eyebrows. “You really did.” Stiles swallowed. “Did I—um, I mean, did you feel good, too? Even if I kind of twisted your arm into having sex with me?”

     At first Derek’s face was closed off, no clues as to what he might be thinking, but then he sighed and dropped his neck, touching his forehead to Stiles’s shoulder. When he lifted his head again to look Stiles in the eye, his whole guard was down, appearing as nakedly vulnerable as Stiles had only seen him maybe twice before—in the pool after he’d saved them from Jackson, and a few minutes ago, when they’d been having sex. It was terrifying, Derek’s face like that, but Stiles refused to glance away or lower his gaze.

     “It felt good,” Derek told him, screaming reluctance from his tense posture and soft voice, the insistent jump of a muscle in his jaw like he was fighting something. “And you didn’t—it was nothing I hadn’t thought about before. A few times.”

     Unbidden, a small sigh of relief snuck past Stiles’s lips. “Okay. That’s—I’m glad. Me too.” He traced his fingertips down to Derek’s cheekbone when he thought the touch wouldn’t be turned away or mocked. Derek twitched but didn’t push him off. “I wouldn’t mind making you feel good again,” he said. Stiles barely had the first idea about what he was even asking. “Um. I didn’t really get much of a chance to touch you like you did before. In the shower. Or downstairs. I kind of want to. If you think you want to, uh… you know. Again. Sometime.”

     For a moment they did nothing more than stare at each other. Though he didn’t answer, there was a lingering wariness in Derek’s eyes, Stiles could see it, and so he did the only thing he could think of, cupping his hand against the back of Derek’s skull in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. The hair that brushed his palm was damp, probably a combination of sweat and residual moisture from the shower by now, but Stiles found it oddly pleasant. He didn’t apply any pressure to get Derek to kiss him, wasn’t even sure if that was the logical next step in this situation, but something must’ve broadcasted because Derek got the hint, leaning in until his lips met Stiles’s.

     It was chaste, at first, but then Stiles shifted onto his side and squirmed closer, closer, pressing himself into Derek’s body and rubbing his still-sensitized cock against Derek’s abs. He couldn’t help the soft moan he emitted. Derek’s arms came around him and their legs tangled, and Stiles didn’t know how they kept falling back into it but suddenly he was sucking on Derek’s tongue and arching against him like they hadn’t just fucked each other’s brains out. If his dick were unionized it’d be staging a strike right about now, twitching feebly when Derek ran his hands down Stiles’s back to cup his ass and hold them firmly together. Maybe it wasn’t totally necessary for Derek to voice his answer out loud after all, which was something Stiles would’ve probably learned sooner if he’d learned to keep his mouth shut.

     Despite Derek’s perfunctory clean-up job, they both needed another shower immediately, but Stiles could’ve let it go on forever, letting his hands rove in a way he hadn’t had the opportunity to do previously, given that Derek’s approach to sex had been very Stiles-centric. Not that he was inclined to complain about that. But let it never be said he couldn’t be the voice of reason when the situation called for it. Stiles recognized how things could easily snowball out of hand all over again, how the rasp of Derek’s stubble against his skin was so very, very addicting.

     He dragged his mouth away with a gasp and said, “Oh my God, are you made of catnip or something?” growling helplessly in his throat when Derek gave a surprised-sounding chuckle and latched on to Stiles’s neck with his teeth, a not-quite bite that caused Stiles to shiver and abortively hump up against the ridge of his pelvis, because it seriously, seriously wasn’t happening again in the next couple hours. At least. He was beginning to get quite well acquainted with the concept of an adrenaline crash all over again. “I didn’t mean I wanted to do those things to you right _now_ , Jesus. I’m not equipped to deal with this werewolf stamina of yours.”

     Derek pulled back seemingly for the express purpose of giving Stiles the stink eye. “You should be,” he said. “Being younger and all.”

     “A couple hours ago you were ready to hold that against me.”

     At that, Derek fell silent, and Stiles immediately regretted the words. Hoping to avoid rehashing _that_ particular avenue of discussion, attempted to mitigate it with a joke.

     Wiggling his hips against Derek’s for emphasis, he quipped, “I guess you figured out a few other things you’d like to hold against me since then, huh?”

     But the words had had their effect, and Stiles felt the comfortable afterglow slipping away between his fingers. He should’ve anticipated it, having gone into this with no expectations to begin with, but at the prospect of Derek pulling back he found himself desperately wanting to prevent it from happening. To change his mind. Especially since he didn’t think he’d imagined the effect they’d had on each other, how even that first kiss had ignited a brighter, hotter fire than either of them was prepared for. And Derek had said he’d thought about Stiles that way before. It was something Stiles thought he could get used to, and he didn’t like the idea of relinquishing that feeling so easily, nor the chance to make Derek feel that way again.

     “Your dad will be back soon,” Derek said stiffly. “I should get cleaned up and go before he comes home.”

     “It’s Saturday, he’s on a double,” Stiles answered automatically. “There’s no rush. You don’t have to go.” Off Derek’s conflicted look, Stiles decided, fuck it, he was already naked and covered in various bodily fluids, he didn’t have much dignity left to lose. Gesturing awkwardly, he croaked out, “Are you really going to—after we just—”

     There was no interpreting the complicated crease between Derek’s eyebrows, but then he said. “Stiles, I don’t…” Sighing, he squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m not going to pretend we didn’t just do what we did, or that it wasn't good, but staying over probably isn’t a good idea.”

     “Why not? Because you might give someone the impression you enjoyed yourself?”

     “Stiles, I can’t—” Frustrated, Derek grit out, “What do you want me to say here?”

     Hardly knowing what he was doing, Stiles clapped a hand over Derek’s mouth. “Maybe don’t say anything.” He forced an exaggerated yawn and gave Derek what he hoped was a significant look. “Man, I’m tired. Those adrenaline rushes, huh? Something else. You must be beat, too. I wouldn’t say no to just lying here quietly for a while. Until you get your strength back.”

     Those pale green eyes studied him closely for several moments, though Derek didn’t seem inclined to say anything until Stiles removed his hand. He remained mute for another minute after that, the two of them watching each other, but then he murmured, “I think anything that combines you and ‘quietly’ in the same sentence is a bit overambitious.”

     Stiles pressed his lips together to hide the smile that wanted to form. “I’m willing to stay silent if you are.”

     This time Derek’s uncertainty, while still obvious, was shorter. Instead of speaking right away he released his hold on Stiles in favour of reaching down to grasp the sheets rumpled near the bottom of the bed and pulled them over himself and Stiles. His lips quirked when Stiles kicked his feet to aid the process and get himself settled comfortably, nestling closer. Derek hesitantly pulled him in against his chest and replaced his arms around Stiles’s waist, letting Stiles pillow his head upon Derek’s shoulder.

     “Okay,” he said at last, and brushed a kiss across Stiles’s eyelids like a suggestion that Stiles should close them now. He did, and felt Derek’s head settle against the pillow, his breaths warm and soft on his face. They both took Stiles’s advice and didn’t say anything more.


End file.
